The Night of the Murderous Actor
by EJ3
Summary: Artemus Gordon goes to the theatre on April 14, 1865. Takes place before Jim and Artie are partners.
1. Chapter 1

Night of the Murderous Actor

EJ McFall

April 14, 1865

Washington, D.C.

Artemus Gordon relished the feel of the luxurious theatre chairs. After spending the last four years as a counterintelligence agent for the Federal Army, he was more than ready to return to the life of a pampered actor. He longed to tread the boards as Hamlet or Macbeth. Or perhaps he'd forestall the dark plays for a time in favor of some of the more light-hearted fare that was becoming all the vogue in London. This evening's offering – _Our American Cousin_ – was a mere trifle compared to the dramatic classics that he was accustomed to performing, but after years of bloodshed he was more than ready for a night of frivolity. The whole country was.

"It's simply stunning, isn't it?" Sylvia Draper, his charming companion, was suitably impressed by the special attention the Ford Theatre had taken to honor the night's anticipated guest. Red, white and blue bunting decorated the president's private box and adorned the stage and the aisles. It was a bit over-the-top for Artie's taste, but he couldn't really complain. The war was in its last days and Washington society ached to abandon its austere lifestyle and return to more elegant times.

"Not half as stunning as you are, my dear." Artie whispered into Sylvia's ear, catching the scent of the lilac she wore in her hair. It had been so long since he'd smelled anything quite so pleasant.

"You are a tease." Sylvia admonished him lightly, though her eyes belied her words. "Do you really think the president will be here tonight?"

"The theatre staff seems to think so." Artie indicated the lavish decorations. "I imagine he needs an evening of entertainment as much as any of us do. Perhaps more so, after all he's done the last few years."

"Oh, dear." Sylvia gestured towards the stage. "The curtain's coming up and he's not here yet."

"Never fear, sweetheart. Politicians and doctors are always fashionably late." Artie leaned back in his chair and gently slid his arm around Sylvia. She sent him a disapproving glance right before she relaxed against him. He was just settling in for the evening when the play abruptly paused and the orchestra played "Hail to the Chief." Artie stood with the rest of the audience to see the President and Mrs. Lincoln make their way to the Presidential box. "Strange."

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing, I guess." Artie scrutinized the small procession as it made its way through the back of the theatre. "I just don't see many guards. And no one from his cabinet seems to be in attendance. Just a young major and his companion."

Sylvia shrugged, her attention on Mrs. Lincoln's elaborate dress. "You worry too much, Artemus. The war is over. It's time to enjoy life again."

"Yes, but the war isn't entirely over. There are still marauding guerrillas out there. Some of them might still pose a risk…"

"Artemus." Sylvia reclaimed her seat as soon as the Lincolns were sequestered in their box. "Stop being a soldier and start being my attentive escort."

"Your wish is my command, lovely lady." Artemus gave the woman's hand a gentlemanly kiss. "I am your most humble servant."

Sylvia bestowed a look of great promise on Artie, then quickly abandoned him as the play resumed. Artie sighed and forced his attention back to the stage. The tale was a well-worn one, centering around the sudden inheritance of a grand English estate by a long-lost bumpkin of an American cousin. The jokes were predictable, growing out of the contrast between English manners and American common sense. Still, as he drew closer to the lovely –and apparently willing—Sylvia, Artie decided there were definitely worse ways to spend an evening.

Still, he couldn't help the occasional upwards glance at the balcony box that housed the president and his party. Certainly the country's leader would be well-guarded, certainly his staff would be aware of the danger inherent in such an open forum. The theatre held nearly a thousand spectators, not to mention the dozens of actors and stagehands that would be milling about backstage. Any of them could…

"Artemus." Sylvia demanded his attention. "You're missing the best part."

"My apologies." Artie whispered. "I shall reform my ways at once."

Artie ordered himself to concentrate on the third act of the play. Asa Trenchard, the rough but honest American, was confronting an English social-climber who was seeking a rich husband for her daughter. "Don't know the manners of good society, eh?" The actor bellowed. "Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal –you sockdologizing old man-trap."

The audience burst into uproarious laughter, but Artie thought he heard something else –a shot, perhaps - over the noise of the crowd. He was about to excuse himself to investigate, when a figure leapt from the president's box and landed on the stage. "Sic semper tyrannis!" the man shouted while waving a bloody knife. From the balcony, a woman could be heard shrieking while a man begged for a doctor.

"Booth." Artie was on his feet. "That was John Wilkes Booth."

"What's going on?" Sylvia's shout blended in with the frightened cries of the rest of the audience. "Has something happened to Mr. Lincoln?"

"I've got to go." Artie ignored Sylvia's pleas as he joined the mob of soldiers who left their wives and girlfriends and bolted for the president's box. By the time Artie was able to push his way through the crowd, a half-dozen Union men were carrying the president from the theatre and into a private home across the street. He did his best to clear a path for the doctor who was struggling to follow his patient, then stood back as it became clear that there were more than enough people on hand to assist their injured leader.

Artie slowly made his way back to Sylvia, though he dreaded sharing his observations with her. It didn't take a doctor to realize that the assassin's bullet had found its target. Any veteran of the recent war knew a fatal head injury when he saw it. The last four years had made them all experts on death.

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	2. Chapter 2

April 15, 1865

Philadelphia

Captain James West stepped from the train, alert for any sign of a threat. It was after midnight, so there were few civilians milling about but he refused to let his guard down. He walked several feet in either direction of the depot, returning to the passenger car only once he was assured that all was calm.

"Captain!" A Union private hobbled towards him, breathlessly calling his name. "Captain West! It's urgent!"

Jim recognized the young man. He'd run messages between Grant's camp and Washington until a Rebel musket brought him down. Despite his injury the boy had completed his last mission and had refused his commander's offer to send him home with an honorable discharge. "Private Bushnell, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." Bushnell saluted smartly and held out an envelope. "For the General, sir. Eyes only. "

"Thank you, Private." Jim gestured towards the train. "Why don't you come aboard and see the Old Man yourself?"

"Thank you, sir, but I can't." Bushnell lowered his voice. "Something's going on in Washington. I've been delivering 'eyes only' missives all night."

"I see. You'd better get back to your post, then." Jim bid the boy a hasty good-bye and hurried back to the train. General Grant had just accepted General Lee's surrender a few days previously and the mood in Washington had been jubilant earlier that morning. So what could have happened during the course of a trip from Washington to Philadelphia to start the telegraph lines buzzing?

"All clear, Captain?" General Grant waited for him at the door to their private passenger car. "I was beginning to think you'd found some pretty young girl and forgotten about us."

"I'm sorry, sir. Mrs. Grant." Jim held out the envelope. "This was waiting for you. The boy said it was urgent."

"More urgent than seeing my children after so long?" Grant sighed as he ripped the letter open. He stared at it for a moment before stuffing it into his jacket pocket. "Close the door, James."

"Sir?"

"The door." Grant sank down onto a chair. "Close it."

Jim hurried to comply. "What is it, sir? Has the truce been broken?"

"Worse." Grant took his wife's hand. "We've lost our beloved leader."

"President Lincoln?" Jim assisted Julia Grant to a seat. "What happened, sir?"

"He was assassinated at the Ford theatre, as he and Mrs. Lincoln watched the play."

"Dear Lord!" Julia crossed herself. "We were meant to be there too. If we hadn't turned down the president's offer so we could see the children…"

Grant nodded. "I might have been able to save him. If I'd only been there…"

"You couldn't have known what would happen, General." Jim knew there would be plenty of time for remorse later. Right now, the future of the country might well be at stake. "We should get Mrs. Grant to safety, sir, then head back to Washington. Vice President Johnson will need you."

"You're right, of course." Grant shoved away his grief. There would be time for sorrow later. The country needed him now. "If you'll accompany Mrs. Grant on to New Jersey, I'll catch the next train back to Washington."

"With respect, sir, Private Bushnell brought me the message. He could take Mrs. Grant to your children and I could accompany you to Washington."

"Bushnell." Grant closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes, I recall him. A good man, to be sure, but there's no one I'd trust with Julia more than you."

"But, sir…"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ulysses." Julia gathered her shawl around her shaking shoulders. "I'll be in no danger. Of course Captain West must be by your side, as he has been through all the war. I won't hear of any other arraignment."

"Julia…"

"The matter is closed." Julia turned to Jim. "If you'll introduce me to your Private Bushnell, Captain, I'll be on my way and you can be on yours."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Grant." Jim extended his arm to the woman. "I know you're eager to be home with your children."

"Indeed." Julia kissed her husband's cheek. "I'll give them your love, Ulysses. God grant we'll all be together again soon, in more pleasant times."

"From your lips to His ears."

Jim wasted no time in delivering the woman to her guardian. He paused at the army garrison only long enough to be updated on the situation in Washington and to recruit six guards to protect the General. By the time he and Grant had switched trains it was nearly two in the morning and they had hours to go before they could relax.

"Get some sleep, James." Grant stretched out on the small couch in his sleeper car. "Surely that mob you brought back from the garrison can handle things for a few hours."

"Six soldiers do not constitute a mob, sir." Jim smiled at his commander, though he was tempted to follow the man's advice. "I checked with the army telegraph office. There was an unsuccessful attempt on Secretary Seward's life and a botched plan to kill the Vice President too. It wasn't just an assassination. It was nearly a coup."

"Was there any word who's responsible? Was it Jeff Davis' work?"

"So far all they know for sure is that some crazy actor shot the president and managed to escape from a crowded theatre. Secretary Stanton is organizing a search party for first light." Jim suppressed a yawn. "With your permission, sir, I'd like to join the hunt. Once you're safely at the White House, that is."

"I don't imagine there's any way I'd be able to keep you at a desk, so you have my permission." Grant closed his eyes. "Now go catch forty winks or you'll be no good to anyone."

"Yes, sir." Jim saluted and stepped into the corridor. The soldiers he'd drafted were all on guard, so he allowed himself to find a comfortable chair and close his eyes. But he didn't sleep. He knew he wouldn't until Grant was safely back in Washington and their leader's death had been avenged.

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	3. Chapter 3

April 15, 1865

Washington D.C.

Artie perched on a barstool at Taltavul's Saloon, nursing his beer while he eavesdropped on the conversations going on around him. The building was next door to the Ford Theatre and was a noted haunt for actors and other ne'er-do-wells. Though he wasn't officially involved in the hunt for Booth, he'd spent too many years gathering intelligence about the enemy to stop now.

"I tell ya, I saw them both here last night." A slightly tipsy –and very loud –Union sergeant had corralled several privates and was regaling them with his version of the previous evening's events. "Booth was drinking at that end of the bar and Lincoln's damned bodyguard was drinking at the other end. Drunk and away from his post…" the sergeant caught himself as he started to slide from his stool. " …if I'd know that bastard Parker was supposed to be guarding the president, I'd have picked him up by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back to Ford's myself."

It wasn't the first time Artie had heard the tale. The bartender himself had confirmed that John Parker, Lincoln's bodyguard, had been busy with a tankard of ale while their president had been watching _Our American Cousin. _ And he'd heard from several sources that Booth had spent the day volleying between Taltavul's and the nearby Greenback Saloon, generally in the company of a set of 'disreputable' companions. Since everyone in the theatre district knew the famous –and eccentric –actor, no one gave his curious behavior a second thought.

"You know how actors are." A middle-aged man in business attire sat at a nearby table, drinking whiskey and discussing the assassination with a young man who Artie decided was most likely a college student. "The whole lot should be run out of town on a rail."

"They aren't all no accounts, Pa." The young man offered cautiously. "Some of my friends at Georgetown have been in plays and they're all first class."

Artie ignored the father's lecture to his son about the morals of the acting class. He'd heard it all before and had to admit that some of it was true. But to blame all actors for Booth's attack on Lincoln….He shook his head. He wasn't surprised that Ford's Theatre had been closed by order of the War Department, but why poor Grover's Theatre –which had been presenting a program of patriotic songs at the moment of the president's death – should be painted with the same brush was beyond him. But then, most of his friends were actors of one stripe or another. In fact, at one time he would have counted John Wilkes Booth in that number. That had changed forever during the third act of last night's production.

"Hey, there's some commotion going on at Ford's." A carriage driver ducked his head into the tavern to make his announcement. "There's a Union Captain pounding on the door to beat the band."

Artie slid from his stool and worked his way around the sudden crowd at the door. Sure enough, a Captain was banging on the theatre door and demanding admittance while a semi-circle of soldiers kept curious bystanders away from Ford's. Artie hurried across the street, though he wasn't quite sure what he hoped to accomplish. If the soldiers wanted to drag away the frightened actors hiding inside, one lone man wasn't going to be able to stop them. Still, he felt compelled to try.

"Captain." Artie only got as far as the barricade of soldiers. He shouted to the determined man pounding on the front door. "The actors inside are terrified of being mobbed. They won't come to the door."

"Are you one of them?" The Captain turned towards Artie. "I'm not here to harm anyone. I just want to talk to any witnesses I can find."

"I'm an actor, but not one of their Company." Artie doffed his hat dramatically. "Artemus Gordon, at your service. Lately one of the Federal Army's best counterintelligence agents."

"You were a spy?"

"Spy is such an unfriendly word, but yes, I was pleased to use my mastery of disguise to advance the Union cause to a small degree."

"Hmmm…." The young officer didn't seem convinced, but he extended his hand to Artie. "Jim West."

"My pleasure. May one assume that you're here in an official capacity?"

"I'm General Grant's aide-de-camp, sent to investigate the assassination. I'd appreciate any assistance you could give me with the actors inside."

Artie was impressed by the officer's lack of bluster. A lesser man would have made more of an issue of his position as the great General's aide. Despite the fact that he was obviously several years younger than Artie, West had a confident aura that instilled instant respect. "I'd be glad to help, Captain. If you'll follow me, I think you'll find that we will have better luck at the alley door. "

"After you." The Captain ordered his soldiers to maintain their vigil up front before falling into step behind Artie.

Artie couldn't help noticing that his companion was cautiously scanning the alley for any signs of a threat, though he showed no other indication that he was concerned for his safety. This was no pampered desk officer, then. The man beside him may be young, but he had the bearing of an experienced soldier.

"Here we go." Artie tapped out a coded knock on the side door and waited for a hesitant reply. "It's Artemus Gordon. Let me in."

The door opened an inch, then slammed shut again.

"It's alright. The Captain is with me. I'll vouch for his behavior." Artie glanced at the silent officer, hoping he wasn't misjudging the man. "He only wants to ask some questions."

James Ford peeked out of the door once again, then hesitantly gestured the men inside. A moment later he slammed the bolt back in place, separating them from the vengeful world outside.

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	4. Chapter 4

Jim West stood silently on the balcony, his anger growing over the apparent ease of the assassination. All it took for the country to lose its leader was a missing bodyguard, a noisy background and a crazy actor. He glared at the tiny peephole that Booth had drilled in the back of the presidential box. Did no one make a last-minute inspection of the area before Abraham Lincoln was allowed to take his seat? The hole would have been a dead giveaway to anyone with security experience, but apparently no one meeting that description had been with the President when he needed it.

He knelt by the door to examine a broken wooden music stand. Booth had used the simple device to barricade the box door once he'd slipped inside, buying himself all the time he needed to accomplish his task. Jim was forced to give the devil his due – the murderous actor had given more thought to killing Lincoln than his staff had given to protecting him. If only he and General Grant had been in town….Jim dismissed the nagging guilt. Now was the time to bring Booth to justice. There would be plenty of time for personal recriminations later.

"Artemus." Jim stepped around the blood stain on the carpet and leaned over the balcony railing. "Was this where Booth was when he jumped?"

Artie crossed the stage and considered the Captain. "A little more to the left, I think. Yes, there was a flag hanging over the balcony during the performance so Booth had to pivot around it."

"Here?" Jim located the empty flag holder attached to the railing and stood beside it.

"That looks about right."

"Who was on stage when he jumped?"

"Just Harry Hawk, the actor who plays Asa Trenchard. He was shouting an insult at another character who had just left the stage." Artie replayed that horrible night in his mind. "It's the funniest line in the play. The audience laughed right over the sound of the gunshot."

"I suppose the line would be said at the same time during every performance?" Jim leaned over the railing and tried to imagine the audience as it had been the previous night –laughing and enjoying themselves while an assassin skulked up the back stairs. "Was Booth familiar with the play?"

"I'm sure he was. It's one of the most popular plays in the country." Artie laughed dryly. "Well, it _was_ one of the most popular plays. Something tells me we've seen its last performance for a long while."

"Can you stand where Hawk would have been?" Jim waited for Artie to comply, then quickly vaulted over the railing and onto the stage.

"Hey!" Artie hurried to the Captain's side and assisted him to his feet. "What kind of crazy stunt was that? You could have broken your fool neck!"

"Not if an actor could do it and survive." Jim brushed off his uniform. "Where's the man who was on stage when Booth jumped?"

"Here, sir." Harry Hawk stood in the wings, nervously straightening his shirt. "I didn't know anything about the plot, sir. I swear on my dear mother's grave."

"Harry's a brilliant comedic actor, but he's a bit skittish at the moment." Artie calmly moved between Jim and Hawk. "The police dragged him in for questioning last night. He didn't return till after breakfast."

"That explains the black eye and the fat lip." Jim took a few steps away from the nervous actor. "I'm not accusing you of anything, Mr. Hawk. I'd just like to know what Booth did after he landed."

"Well…" Hawk glanced at Artie, who nodded. "I was kind of in shock at first. I mean, Booth's always been a bit of a scoundrel, but no actor worth his salt would interrupt a performance. It took me a moment…I didn't hear the screams at first and then everyone was rushing towards the back of the theatre. By the time I realized it wasn't a stunt, Booth had already limped off stage and into the tunnel."

"Tunnel?"

"Beneath the stage. It's used to move props on and off stage quickly." Artie gestured for Jim to follow. "It's a simple matter to cut through the tunnel and out the alley door without anyone noticing. Especially not with all the chaos last night."

"Even if you're limping at the time?" Jim waited for Artie to light an oil lantern before they ventured into the tunnel. "Would there be light down here during the performance?"

"Yes, to the light. The stage hands are in and out of the tunnel all night. As to the limping…" Arte shrugged. "Actors take great pride in remaining in character even if they're hurt during a performance and Booth is…was…one of the best."

"I don't care how good the bastard is, I don't see how one crazy actor could kill someone as important as President Lincoln by himself." Jim clenched his fists. "It just doesn't make any sense."

"I know. It's hard to believe. If the bodyguard hadn't been AWOL, if anyone in the audience –including me - had thought to chase Booth instead of running to the President's aid…" Artie cracked open the alley door that waited at the end of the tunnel "…if someone had just stolen the horse that he'd left out here…But we can't change the facts. We can only bring Booth to justice."

Jim nodded, quickly composed himself before stepping out into the alley. "You're right. The manhunt is all that matters now. Thank you for your help, Artemus. I appreciate your time."

"My friends call me Artie. And believe me, you're going to need a friend in the Zekiah Swamp."

"The Zekiah Swamp? In Maryland? What makes you think I'm going there?"

"Because, that's where my Copperhead associates say Booth is hiding out." Artie chuckled at Jim's surprised expression. "Once a spy, always a spy. Old habits are hard to break, even in peacetime."

Jim couldn't help laughing as Artie embellished his explanation with dramatic gestures. He had no doubt that the actor had been an excellent intelligence agent, using his gift for playing a role to help him slip in and out of enemy territory. And since he had no plan of his own for capturing Booth, a swamp was as good a place as any to search for him. "If I'm heading for Zekiah, I'm going to need a guide. I don't suppose you know the area?"

"Of course I do. Like the back of my hand. But before we go, we really do need to discuss your uniform."

"My uniform?" Jim glanced down at his immaculate jacket, expecting to see a stain. "What's wrong with it?"

"Oh, I'm sure the ladies swoon when they see such a handsome young officer, but Maryland is a hotbed of Confederate sympathizers." Artie tapped the insignia on Jim's shoulders. "They'll take one look at you in your finery and use you for target practice."

"You may have a point." Jim glanced back towards the theatre. "I don't suppose your actor friends would have a more suitable outfit?"

"My thoughts exactly." Artie grinned. "How's your Southern accent?"

Jim shook his head.

"Never mind. You can be a poor, pitiful mute, played out from the war. I shall be your older –and wiser—cousin." Artie hummed as he led the way to one of the dressing rooms. "This will be my greatest role yet. The actor hunting the actor. It's almost Shakespearian, don't you think?"

Jim nodded automatically, though part of him was beginning to wish he was back on the battlefield with General Grant.

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	5. Chapter 5

April 20, 1865

Maryland

Artie yawned as he set the coffee pot over their small fire pit. He knew –and Jim would no doubt remind him –that it was counterproductive to start a fire when one was trying to sneak up on someone. He also knew that without a cup of coffee –or chicory, as the case may be –he would be completely unable to focus on the task at hand.

"You know you shouldn't be making a fire."

"Yes, James." Artie glanced over his shoulder to see Jim emerge from their tent, looking bright-eyed and ready to go, despite the fact that they'd already spent four fruitless days tramping through this god-forsaken swamp. "Coffee?"

"Thought you'd never ask." Jim held out a tin cup. "I have a good feeling about today."

"That's what you said yesterday and the day before."

"Yes, but today I have a _really_ good feeling." Jim settled onto a tree-stump chair and sipped his coffee. "The guy couldn't have gotten too far with only one good leg."

Artie shrugged. "There are plenty of Southern sympathizers around here that'd be glad to help him cross the river into Virginia."

"And risk being hanged as a conspirator?"

"That's only if they're caught and a good smuggler never thinks he's going to be caught."

"You may have a point." Jim tossed the dregs of his drink into the tall grass. "But that just means that we'll have to be smarter than they are."

"Indeed." Artie used the remains of their coffee to douse the fire. "I suppose this means you're ready to wade back into the fray?"

"I am, but if you'd rather take a day off…"

"What? And miss the opportunity to play another exciting game of fox-and-hound in the odiferous swamp?" Artie grabbed a handful of hardtack crackers from a tin before tossing it to Jim. "Breakfast."

Jim wrinkled his nose before returning the metal box. "I've had enough hardtack the last four years to last me a lifetime. I'll get ready to decamp while you enjoy your meal."

"Cheer up. Maybe we'll find a rat or a snake for lunch." Artie ignored Jim's grumbled reply in favor of getting the horses ready. Personally, he suspected that Booth had already made his way across the Potomac and was hiding out in Virginia, but Jim –dedicated soldier that he was –seemed determined to check every sinkhole between here and the Virginia border for their prey. And since Artie had nothing else on his calendar, he was content to give the Captain free rein in their pursuit. If it weren't for the mosquitos, the swamp gas and the constant fog, their little journey might actually be quite enjoyable. Except for the fact that they were tracking a cold-blooded murderer, of course.

"All ready?" Jim secured his haversack, the tent canvass and his bed roll to his saddle.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friend." Artie mounted his horse. "Henry the Fifth, Act 3, Scene 1. Not one of my favorite plays, but always a crowd-pleaser. Plenty of blood and gore."

"As if we don't have enough of that in real life." Jim spurred his horse into a brisk walk and immediately resumed his days-old search for footprints or other signs that anyone had been in the area before them. Unfortunately, solid ground was sparse and scattered throughout the swamp. Most of their tracking had been done over soggy land that quickly destroyed any evidence that their prey might have left behind.

Artie paused as they came to a braided stream, indicating that their small island of terra firma was about to merge once again with swamp land. "Into the muck or back the way we came?"

Jim jumped from his horse and waded into knee-deep water. "It's not too bad. Looks like there's a bigger island over there. Might be a good place to hide out."

"It's worth a look." Artie held Jim's horse with one hand while batting at mosquitos with the other. Jim swung back into his saddle and pressed on towards the large island. Artie followed at a more sedate pace, still doing battle with the swarm of insects that insisted on circling his head.

"Artie!" Jim pointed eagerly at a small column of smoke rising up from the island. "Someone's over there!"

"It might just be someone hoping to collect the $50,000 bounty on Booth's head." Artie would have urged caution, but Jim was already coaxing his horse on through the twisted vegetation that floated on the water.

"You go around the other side and flank –" Jim's order was overshadowed by his horse's high-pitched scream as the muck and sand beneath its feet suddenly dropped off into a sinkhole. Jim was thrown off the animal and struggled to calm the flailing horse as the two were buffeted by the sudden undertow. Artie watched in horror as man and beast were dragged down into the mire.

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	6. Chapter 6

Jim forced himself to remain calm as he was dragged under the murky water. The horse was thrashing about in a panic, its teeth and hooves becoming inadvertent weapons. Jim struggled to get oriented in the darkness, unsure whether he was heading up towards the surface or sinking down to his death. The churning silt and vegetative debris obscured his vision, but something ropelike was bobbing in the water ahead of him. A plant or a tree limb or even a snake. He didn't know and didn't care. He simply grabbed it. A moment later he was being pulled up and out of the water.

"Jim!" Artie tugged the man away from the danger zone surrounding the sinkhole. "Are you alright?"

"I think so." Jim coughed as he collapsed into the shallow water. "Thanks."

"My pleasure." Artie helped Jim to his feet. "For a moment there, I thought you were headed straight down to Davy Jones' locker."

"So did I." Jim took a cautious step back towards the sinkhole. "My horse…"

Artie caught his arm. "He's gone, Jim. Pulled down by the undertow."

Jim nodded. The animal wasn't his usual mount, just a loaner from the Washington garrison. But still, he hated to see any dumb beast suffer and he'd seen far too many horses sacrificed during battle. Perhaps if he'd walked the horse through the water he would have seen the danger in time to save them both.

"Come on." Artie slapped Jim's shoulder. "Let's get your clothes dried before you catch the ague."

"I'm alright." Jim searched the skies. "The smoke is gone. They must have heard all the commotion."

"Chances are it was just another search party." Artie ignored Jim's doubtful expression. "Either way, standing there dripping wet will only punish you, not Booth."

"You're right." Jim started wading towards shore. "They can't get too far. We can still catch up with them."

"With one horse?" Artie shook his head. "Once we get you dry, we're heading to the closest town that has soft beds and hot food."

"Artie…"

"You know I'm right. Pushing forward with only half our supplies and exhausted personnel is no way to run a campaign."

"Ok, ok. We'll take one night off. But come first light tomorrow morning…"

"We're back in the saddle." Artie tossed off a salute. "Aye, aye, Captain."

Jim hated to admit it, but a warm meal and a good night's sleep sounded awfully appealing at the moment. And he was well aware that two men sharing one horse weren't going to make any time on the trail. It just galled him to turn back when they might be so close.

"Here. Get out of those wet clothes." Artie pulled a blanket from his saddle bag as soon as they made shore. "I'll get a fire going."

"We should investigate that smoke. I'll…"

"All in good time, James, my boy. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"I'm not trying to build Rome, just catch a killer." Jim grumbled as he tugged off his soggy clothes. Deep down, he knew that Artie was only being sensible, but he was not a patient man. Not when there was important work to be done.

Artie ducked as wet clothes came flying his way. He strung the rope he'd used to fish Jim out of the drink between two trees and hung the costume dungarees and work shirt near the fire.

Jim hunkered under the blanket, doing his best to avoid the April morning chill while he planned their next move. "The way that fire's going, we should be back on the road in no time."

"I'm going to see if there's anything around here that's edible." Artie announced as he headed off through the tall grass. "Mushrooms or roots or berries. There's got to be something other than hardtack out here."

"Good luck." Jim settled in front of the fire. In the short time that he'd spent with Artie, he'd learned to trust the man's resourcefulness. Or his luck. Or maybe it was his acting skills. One way or another, Artie always seemed to have a contact in every town they came to and he always seemed privy to the local scuttlebutt. Jim doubted that they'd gotten as far as they had in their search without Artie's ability to blend in and get strangers to talk to him.

"I told you I'd find something worth eating." Artie was clearly hiding something behind his back as he returned to the fire. "Hold out your hands."

Jim hesitantly obeyed. "I'm not a big fan of frogs or snails."

"Ah, then you've never been to a truly authentic French restaurant. I went to this marvelous place in New Orleans…"

"Artie. What do you have behind your back?"

"Nothing special. Just gingerbread." Artie held out a plaid square of fabric and a bottle. "And some rather strong moonshine."

"What?" Jim unwrapped the fabric to reveal half a loaf of gingerbread. "Where did you find this?"

"I found the source of the smoke we saw. There's an abandoned camp on the other side of the rise. Looks like they took off pretty quickly. They left some of their supplies and these." Artie dumped a stack of newspapers at Jim's feet.

"Newspapers?" Jim flipped through the stack as he wolfed down some of the bread. "Looks like there's a week's worth."

"Beginning on April 15 and ending yesterday. There are copies of all the big papers from the area, North and South."

"Who sits in a swamp reading papers and eating gingerbread?"

"And ripping up his girlfriend's picture." Artie handed Jim two parts of a photo of a beautiful young woman. "The lovely Lucy Hale, daughter of Senator John Hale of New Hampshire. She's quite the prominent figure in Washington society."

"Booth's girl?" Jim didn't wait for Artie's nod. He grabbed his half-dry clothes from the line and hurriedly dressed.

"He's not alone, Jim. There are three different sets of footprints at their camp. It looks like two people were sleeping there and the third was going back and forth, presumably supplying them with food and newspapers."

"So you were right. He is getting help from the local Confederate sympathizers."

"And they've no doubt been biding their time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to smuggle Booth across the Potomac and into Virginia." Artie held up one of the papers and pointed to a boldface headline. "They've arrested several of the conspirators, including the man who attacked the Secretary of State and a woman who owned the boarding house where the conspiracy was planned. "

"So it wasn't just a spur-of-the-moment attack. It still doesn't sound like something your run-of-the-mill actor would be able to pull off by himself. General Grant thinks Jeff Davis might have been at the bottom of it all." Jim skimmed one of the papers. "This is odd. The Secretary of War has put Lafayette Baker in charge of the hunt for Booth."

"So? Do you know him?"

"No, not personally, but he was a spy during the war. There was always some question as to whose side he was spying for, however. General Grant wouldn't have anything to do with him."

"That _is_ interesting." Artie doused the fire. "I think it's time to have a chat with some of the locals. "

"Time for you to chat. I'm mute, remember?"

"How could I possibly forget? You play your part so well."

Jim scoffed. "I'm no actor. It's killing me to keep my mouth shut when people start bad-mouthing Lincoln."

"Well, just you remember your role or you may find that you have more in common with Father Abraham than you thought." Artie grew uncharacteristically somber. "That's a word to the wise, Jim. A spy who forgets his cover is generally a dead spy. And as you may have noticed, there are plenty of deep, dark holes out in the swamp. I'd hate to hear that you've been dumped into one in the middle of the night."

"That makes two of us." Jim tucked the stack of papers into Artie's saddlebag. "Come on. The sooner we get another horse and more supplies, the sooner we can get back on the trail."

"Truly, it is written, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

"What?"

"That's how Taoists say 'let's get going.'"

Jim just shook his head and rolled up the blanket. He would probably never understand Artemus Gordon, but he was beginning to think that he was an invaluable man to have on your side when things got rough.


	7. Chapter 7

The small town of Riverton was abuzz with activity when Jim and Artie arrived. Union troops congregated around the post office, which appeared to have been commandeered as a command station. An officer stood on the steps, barking orders and moving colored pins around on a large regional map. Civilians gathered under shade trees, passively watching the soldiers as they hurried in and out of town on their missions.

"Give way, give way!" An army wagon rumbled down the street, forcing Jim and Artie off the road. Their anger quickly disappeared as they realized that the cart carried wounded –or dead—soldiers.

"What happened to them?" Jim slid down from their horse. "Are we back at war?"

"I don't know, Cousin James…" Artie gave Jim a significant look. "But since you can't talk, I'll make some inquiries."

Jim clamped his mouth shut with a scowl. He was a soldier, not a spy. He was accustomed to dealing with the enemy on the battlefield. This skulking around in shadows play-acting was not his style. He would never make a good intelligence operative.

Artie began a leisurely stroll down the street, smiling at the ladies and chatting amiably with their horse. He paused a few feet from the wagon, which had stopped by the undertaker's, and bent down to examine one of the animal's hooves. "What's this, Blackie? You've got a stone in your shoe?"

"Careful there, you ox!" The wagon driver shouted at the undertaker's assistants as they nearly dropped one of the bodies. "Show that soldier some respect. It's bad enough he died in some hell hole of a swamp. I won't have you oafs tossing him around like a bag of flour."

"Died in the swamp, did he?" Artie employed his best backwoods accent. "What was the fool doing out there? The Zakiah's no fit place for man nor beast."

"In case you haven't heard, the President's been shot. We've got orders to find his killer, no matter the cost." The driver spat tobacco juice near Artie's boots. "The damn swamp's swallowed up near a dozen men so far, but we're not giving up. Not till we track down the devil responsible for the killing and see him hanging from a tree."

"Halleluiah to that!" Artie smacked the side of the wagon for emphasis. "I think this calls for a drink. How about we go down to the saloon and share a bottle of whiskey? Your treat, of course, being as I'm a bit low on funds at the moment…"

"Get out of here, you old rummy." The driver snapped his whip in Artie's direction. "I've got work to do."

"Alright, alright. No need to get cantankerous. I can take a hint." Artie led the horse away. "Come on, Blackie. We're obviously not wanted here."

Jim shot a last glance at the officer on the post office steps before whispering to Artie. "I think that's Lafayette Baker getting things organized."

"Your double agent?"

"That's just the rumor. He might be a straight arrow."

"There's one sure way to find out." Artie gestured down the street towards a rough-looking pub. "If Baker's a sympathizer, he's probably had a drink or two at the Terrapin."

"After the day we're had, I think we're entitled to a beer."

"My thoughts exactly." Artie put a finger to his lips. "Cousin James."

Jim growled, but went mute.

Artie chuckled as he led the way to the pub. He could easily have devised another way to explain Jim's Midwestern accent, but it was so much more amusing to watch the bold soldier struggle to be meek and mild. He opened the door with a flourish and whispered: "Into the viper's nest we go."

Jim simply nodded and followed the older man to the bar. The pub grew silent as soon as the door opened, then slowly returned to normal as the regulars recognized Artie.

"Artemus." The bartender slid a tankard of beer down the bar. "What brings you to town?"

"Just passing through on the way to Virginia." Artie indicated Jim. "This is my cousin James."

"James." The bartender wiped his hands on his apron before reaching out to Jim. "Any friend of Artemus' is a friend of mine."

Jim silently shook hands.

"Cousin James doesn't speak." Artie leaned in to whisper to the bartender. "He spent six months in a Yankee prison camp and hasn't been the same since."

"Ah." The bartender nodded slowly. "That calls for a drink on the house."

"And a toast." Artie lifted his cup. "To John Wilkes Booth. The great defender of the South."

"To Booth." The bartender glanced around before toasting, was reassured when he saw only his friends. "May he make it safely to Canada."

"That's where he's off to then?" Artie asked casually. "I would have thought he'd head down South, maybe go as far as Mexico."

The bartender shook his head. "He's got friends up in Canada. Some of Jeff Davis' best men are stationed there, waiting for orders to…"

"I wouldn't say anything more, Jackson." A burly man stood inside the doorway. "Not unless you want to tell a couple of Pinkertons all the family secrets."

"Pinkertons?" The bartender laughed. "I've known Artemus for years and the quiet one's his cousin."

"Our friend outside says that one…" The newcomer pointed at Jim. "….is Grant's errand boy."

"Sir, are you accusing my cousin of being a loathsome spy?" Artie raised his voice in indignation. "I shall not spend one more moment in the company of such disreputable …" Artie paused as a gun was aimed at his heart. "On the other hand, I wouldn't want to be too hasty…"

"Alright, put the gun down and step away." Jim drew his revolver in one swift motion and fired at the burly man's feet. "I said, put it down."

"It's a miracle! You can talk!" Artie aimed his own weapon at his assailant. The burly man's gun dropped to the floor a moment later.

"I don't know about you, Artie, but I think it's time to hit the trail again." Jim turned to the bartender, gun still in hand. "Sorry, Jackson, but I'm going to have to commandeer your horse. Unless, of course, you'd like to object."

The man shook his head. "It's the buckskin out front. Help yourself."

"Very sensible." Jim paused at the exit. "Just in case any of you get any bright ideas, let me remind you that the soldiers down the street are just itching to get the reward for catching Booth and his collaborators. With $50,000 on the line, I doubt they'll be too picky about which Confederate sympathizers they round up. If I were you, I'd lie low until everything calms down."

"Nicely done, Jim." Artie unhitched his horse from the post out front and waited for Jim to locate his new mount. "I suppose this means we're not staying in town long enough for dinner and a bath."

"Sorry, but it sounds like we have at least one spy infiltrating the search party. We've got to get to Booth before he does."

Artie sighed as he swung into his saddle. It was bad enough that they were searching for a needle in a swampy haystack, but now they had to watch their backs for traitors. He'd give anything to be back in Washington with a beautiful companion, enjoying a frivolous night on the town. Just as long as they didn't end up at Ford's theatre.

WWW


	8. Chapter 8

April 26, 1865

Port Royal, VA

Jim sat at the breakfast table at their hotel, dawdling over a cup of coffee while Artie was off tracking down one of his informants. In the last few days, they'd searched every small town and isolated farmhouse on the Virginia side of the Potomac. The doctor who'd treated Booth's leg and the man who'd brought him food in the swamp had been apprehended, as well as others who had contributed in some way to the conspiracy. But Booth himself was still on the run, with eyewitness accounts placing him everywhere from Florida to Maine and all points in between.

"Is there something wrong with your coffee?" Melissa, the young waitress, paused at the table.

"What?" Jim glanced up from his musings. "Oh, no. It's fine. Thank-you."

"If there's anything I can do for you..." Melissa broke off with a suggestive smile.

"Thanks, Miss March, but I'm afraid I have a busy day ahead of me." Jim turned up the charm. "But maybe later tonight, if you don't have plans, we could go for a walk. I'd love to see the local scenic spots."

"I'd like that." Melissa cleared the breakfast dishes from the table. "After supper, perhaps. Around 8:00?"

"I'll count the hours."

"Jim!" Artie dashed into the room, sending Melissa scurrying into the kitchen. "I think we've got a lead."

Jim was already on his feet. "What is it?"

"Rumor has it that Booth and another man are hiding on the Garrett farm, just a few miles out of town."

"Do you believe your informant?" Jim was eager to pursue the lead, but they'd wasted too much time on false reports to rush off without being certain.

"Not only do I believe it, but so does your Lafayette Baker. He's on his way already with his troops."

"We've got to get out there before Baker."

"Do you really think he's a double agent?" Artie grabbed some warm biscuits from a chafing dish and stuffed them into his pockets. "As far as I can tell, he's been diligently chasing Booth across the whole county."

"I know. I'm just worried about what he'll do when he finally catches up to him."

"Like what? Smuggle him out of the country in front of dozens of loyal Union soldiers?"

"I don't know. I just don't trust him." Jim shrugged off the topic. "Did your contact tell you where the farm is?"

"Not only did he tell me, he told me about a shortcut." Artie grinned as he set his hat at a rakish angle. "Come along, James, my boy. The hunt awaits."

"That's what I like about you, Artie. You're always one step ahead of the bad guys." Jim slapped Artie's arm as he walked past him and out the door.

"Just one thing, Jim." Artie hurried to keep up with the younger man. "If we find Booth first, will we be eligible for the $50,000 reward?"

Jim just shook his head in reply before swinging onto his horse.

"It's not that I'm greedy, but just think of everything one could do with all that money. My own theatre company. My own theatre. A junket across the seas to visit Stratford-on-the-Avon…" Artie had to spur his horse to catch up with Jim, who was going at a full gallop. "You're going to kill the horses if you keep up this pace!"

"If need be. We've got to beat Baker to the farm!"

Artie didn't understand the urgency, but he did his best to match Jim's speed. He agreed that Booth probably wasn't the mastermind of the conspiracy, but with dozens of Union soldiers converging on his hiding place, the chances of the man escaping were slim. Unless…. Artie urged his horse on until he was riding abreast of Jim. "If Baker is a double agent, who's he spying for? Jeff Davis or someone in Washington?"

"Washington? You think the Copperheads have infiltrated the White House?"

"I know they have, but that's not what I'm talking about. What if someone in the Cabinet –or higher –was involved in the assassination?"

"The only person higher than the Cabinet is Vice President Johnson. Are you accusing him of wanting to be president?"

"I don't know." Artie considered the full impact of his statement. "But I do know that Lincoln was at odds with much of Washington on how to treat the South now that the war is over. Lincoln wanted to bind the nation's wounds and bring the South back into the fold. A majority of Congress wants the South to pay restitution and be ruled by the North. I don't see President Johnson fighting as hard for the vanquished as Father Abraham would have. "

"I read some of that in those papers we found, especially in the Southern ones. They didn't think Booth did the Confederacy any favors. I don't…" Jim pulled up his horse as he spotted a plume of black smoke on the horizon. "Something's on fire."

"And right about where we're heading too!" Artie didn't need Jim's urging to increase his speed.

Jim galloped towards the source of the smoke until he came upon a tobacco barn in flames, surrounded by two dozen Union soldiers. He dismounted and ran towards the closest men. "What's going on? Is Booth in there?"

Despite Jim's civilian clothes, his command bearing brought an answer from one of the young privates standing guard. "We trapped Booth and another conspirator –a guy named Herold—in the barn. Herold surrendered but Booth won't come out, so Colonel Baker told us to set the barn on fire. Booth still won't come out. He says he'd sooner die."

"We need him alive for interrogation." Jim pulled an oilskin pouch from his shirt pocket and presented his identification papers to the private. "I need to talk to your superior. Immediately."

The young man glanced at the papers before drawing to attention and saluting Jim. "Right away, Captain. If you'll come this way."

Jim didn't need to be led to the man in charge. He recognized Lafayette Baker as the man who'd been in control of operations at Riverton. The older man stood to the side of the fire, casually observing the soldiers who were tasked with bringing in John Wilkes Booth –dead or alive. Baker wore a Colonel's uniform, though Jim was fairly certain that the spy had no rank. Still, to avoid wasting time arguing, Jim saluted the man and presented his papers. "Captain James West, sir. General Grant's aide-de-camp."

"I'm aware of who you are, Captain." Baker spoke dismissively. "And that you're out of uniform."

"We have to take Booth alive, sir. We need to find out how deep the conspiracy goes. General Grant's orders." Jim knew the last part was a lie, but he contented himself that Grant would have given the order if he'd been aware of the situation.

"Grant's not in charge here, boy. I am." Baker pushed past Jim to address his troops. "Get that murderous bastard out of there, one way or another."

"Take him alive!" Jim bolted towards the barn. "If you have to shoot, aim to wound, not kill."

"I see him!" Sgt. Boston Corbett shouted as Booth came into view as a section of the barn was destroyed by the fire. "I can get the traitor!"

"Don't!" Jim swore as Corbett fired and a scream from inside registered a hit. "Stand down!"

A few of the soldiers responded to Jim's command. More followed Baker's order to drag Booth from the quickly collapsing building. Jim pushed forward as the actor's bleeding body was dragged away from the fire.

"Who were you working for?" Jim knelt beside Booth, but was quickly dragged away by soldiers under Baker's command. He was about to charge back into the fray when Artie caught his arm.

"There's too many, Jim. Even for you."

Jim struggled to peer through the crowd of soldiers to see Booth lying on the ground. He had clearly been mortally wounded and was struggling to breathe. He only had time to mumble 'useless, useless' before his head lolled back and his body grew still.

"That's it, boys." Baker announced loudly. "The traitorous bastard is gone."

Hurrahs broke out among the men. Jim was about to head for his horse in defeat when he noticed Baker removing a journal from Booth's jacket pocket. "What's that?"

"Probably nothing." Baker hastily dropped the book into his own pocket. "Come on, boys. Let's get this worthless corpse loaded onto the wagon. Then it's back to Port Royal for a hero's welcome. The first round of drinks is on me!"

Another round of hurrahs filled the air. Jim blocked Baker as he started past. "I'll take the journal to General Grant, sir."

"Don't be ridiculous, boy. I'm taking it to Secretary of War Stanton. He'll decide what to do with it." Baker gestured for several of his soldiers to step forward. "This man claims to be General Grant's aide, but as far as I'm concerned he could just as easily be an imposter who has stolen West's identification. Escort him and his friend back to Port Royal and keep them at the garrison until we can verify their information."

"You can't…" Jim paused as he found himself outnumbered, outgunned, and disarmed.

"I think, James, that he can." Artie whispered as he, too, was disarmed. "At least until we get back to Washington. _If_ we get back to Washington, that is."

"We'll make it to Washington." Jim mumbled as he and Artie were unceremoniously shoved onto the wagon with Booth's body. "But I doubt the journal will."

"Cheer up." Artie tried to remain optimistic as he and Jim were tied back to back. "At least we don't have to walk. And if we have any luck at all, you can still get back in time for your appointment with that delightful young girl you were talking to this morning. I wonder if she has an equally lovely sister for me. We could make an evening of it."

Jim glared at his friend, who was fortunate enough not to be able to see it.

WWW


	9. Chapter 9

"You might as well relax." Artie set a good example by stretching out on his army-issue cot. "You're not getting out of here until Grant vouches for you."

"What's taking him so long?" Jim paced the length of their small cell. "Maybe he was supposed to be killed during the attempted coup too. Maybe someone's had time to finish up the job."

"I'm sure your friend Lafayette would be glad to tell you if any harm had befallen Grant. He strikes me as the type who enjoys giving people bad news. And pulling the wings from butterflies. And taking candy from babes. All those wholesome activities."

"I think you're right." Jim plopped down onto his cot. "I just wish I knew what his angle is. Do you think he was involved in the conspiracy?"

"Not in the actual murder, but could he be trying to cover-up something?" Artie shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"I'd be willing to bet that…" Jim jumped to his feet as a guest arrived. "General! It's good to see you, sir. I was beginning to worry about you."

"You're the one who's behind bars, James." Grant waited for a nervous private to open the cell door. "But why, I don't know."

"Booth had a journal. I tried to get it for you, but Colonel Baker…"

"I have it here." Grant patted his coat pocket. "Lafayette gave it to me himself."

"He gave it to you?" Jim followed the others out of the building. "I don't understand. Why would he refuse to give it to me if he was planning to give it to you all along?"

"Perhaps he really didn't' believe that you were an officer." Grant chuckled as he noted Jim's civilian clothing. "I can see where he might have had trouble seeing past the workman garb to your military soul."

"I suppose…." Jim couldn't shake his suspicions. "Could I take a look at the journal, sir?"

"Of course." Grant handed over the small book. "But I've already skimmed it. As far as I can tell, it's just the ravings of a madman."

Jim flipped open the journal, held it so Artie could see it too. At first glance, it was just pages and pages of Booth's justification for the assassination. But when Jim looked closer… "Artie, do you see what I see?"

"Missing pages." Artie took the book for closer examination. "A dozen, maybe. Perhaps more."

"What?" Grant stared at the evidence that the book had been altered. "I suppose Booth could have ripped them out himself."

"Right. He may just have disposed of pages that he'd revised." Jim determined that the three men were away from all eavesdroppers. "Or Baker might have been covering for someone who was mentioned in the journal. Booth's superior perhaps."

"Secretary Stanton has determined that the plot goes no farther than Booth and his circle of conspirators." Grant tucked the book back into his coat pocket. "It's time to end the manhunt for Lincoln's killers. The nation needs time to heal its wounds."

"But, General, people have the right to know if Booth was taking orders from someone higher up. Let me talk to some of Booth's sympathizers." Jim glanced at Artie, was rewarded with a nod of support. "If someone in the government was involved, Artie and I can…"

Grant shook his head firmly. "The nation has been ripped asunder and has been drowning in its own blood for four years. Our country needs to have faith in its government, to have faith that the future will be brighter than the past. Telling our citizens that their leaders were involved in the death of their martyred president will only cast a pall over an already shaky future."

"Then you'll hide the truth in that book?" Jim stared at Grant in confusion. "You'll keep people in the dark about what really happened to Lincoln?"

"I would, though we have no evidence that Booth was involved with anyone in a position of power." Grant patted his pocket. "All that any of us knows for sure is that Booth's last testament is missing several pages. There's no reason to believe that anyone other than Booth destroyed them."

"But if the mastermind is still out there, President Johnson could be in danger."

"No one would waste a bullet on Johnson." Grant chuckled, then grew serious. "I'll need your word, James, that you will never mention the journal or its contents to anyone without my express permission. You too, Mr. Gordon."

"You have my promise, General." Artie adopted his best simpleton persona. "Don't know nothing about nothing no how."

"And you, Captain?" Grant laid a hand on Jim's shoulder. "You've trusted me during the thick of battle, when things were at their darkest. Will you also trust me to know how best to keep the peace?"

"Of course, General. I just…" Jim drew to attention. "Yes, sir. No mention without your permission, sir."

"I knew I could trust you, James. I hope someday you'll understand my motives, but until then we've got a country to patch back together." Grant glanced at his watch. "And I'm late for a dinner engagement with the new president so I'm afraid I must be on my way."

Artie waited for Grant to walk out of earshot before turning to Jim. "He's right, you know. The peace is too fragile to survive a government scandal."

"So we ignore the possibility that someone in power was involved in the conspiracy and put a few low-level conspirators through a show trial?"

"If that's what it takes to give the country the time it needs to heal, yes." Artie steered Jim away from the busy street. "Look, I know how you feel. Once upon a time I was young and naïve too…"

"I'm hardly naïve."

"When it comes to war tactics, no. But when it comes to the murky world of politics…" Artie shook his head with a disarming smile. "Battles are fought out in the open, with the sides clearly marked. Politics is a game played in the shadows, where no one is ever truly certain who's on which side. If you're going to be a spy, the first thing you have to realize is that the world's not black and white. It's gray."

"And it's up to the people in power to determine what facts the little people get to hear and what remains hidden for their own good?"

"I don't know if that's the right way to run a country or not. I only know that it's the way it's done. Myself, I'm just a tiny cog doing my small part to keep the machine running efficiently." Artie slapped Jim on the back. "Just like you are."

Jim shook his head. "Once the rebels have all given up their arms, I'm heading back home. I've seen enough death and destruction to last a lifetime."

"And what will you do once you're back home? Plant crops? Sell hats and shoes? Herd cows?" Artie laughed gently. "No, James my boy. I haven't known you long, but I already know without a doubt that a life of peaceful obscurity is not for you."

"If it's good enough for Grant, it's good enough for me. The general is going back to Illinois, to his shop in Galena."

Artie snorted. "If you think Ulysses S. Grant is going to spend the rest of his life making change in a small-town shop, you're crazier than I thought. He's not leaving Washington and you're not leaving the battlefield."

"The war between the states is over, Artie. What do you suggest I do? Become a gun for hire?"

"I suggest you continue to do what you do best: serve your country. If you can't do it on the battlefield, then do it from the shadows."

"As a spy?" Jim's voice was filled with derision. "That's your game, not mine."

"It's true that I'm better at it than you are." Artie ignored Jim's scowl. "But given some acting lessons and a little coaching on accents…"

Jim waved away the argument. "I am who I am. I serve my country in uniform, not from the shadows."

"Alright, have it your way. But let me leave you with one last thought. What if a government operative had been able to infiltrate Booth's gang of conspirators and stop him before he was able to act? Wouldn't saving the life of someone as important to the country as Abraham Lincoln was be worth a little skullduggery?"

"Sure. I guess." Jim sighed. "Of course. But it didn't happen, did it?"

"That's because the government has no organized group of secret operatives, unlike other countries. But we will, someday. Mark my words."

"And when this society of spies is created, you'll be the first in line to sign up?"

"Me? Heavens no." Artie grinned. "I'm an actor. But you, my boy, have potential."

"And you have an overactive imagination."

"Perhaps." Artie's stomach growled, reminding him that it had been a very long day. A very long week. "Well, Captain, I believe we've done all we can do for the Union at the moment. It's up to the courts from here on out. I'm sure Booth's conspirators will soon be swinging from a rope and the country will finally be able to move on."

"The conspirators that we know of, at any rate." Jim held out his hand. "It's been…an experience… working with you. I hope I'll be able to see you on the stage one day in the future."

"Indeed, between my acting skills and your military acumen we were quite a team." Artie glanced down the street towards the nearest pub. "Perhaps a last drink before we head our separate ways?"

"You read my mind." Jim grinned as he fell into step beside his friend. "You know, someone really should go up to Canada and check out that group of Confederate sympathizers that your friend back in Riverton was talking about…."

"Indeed. I understand that there are several well-respected theatre companies up North. I could join one and you could accompany me as my mute dresser."

"Why do I always have to be mute? Why can't I just be a Northern traitor?"

"Because you are noble and true and incapable of betraying your country."

Jim scoffed.

"Very well, let me hear you condemn your General Grant as a drunken womanizer."

"He's not…." Jim broke off with a smile. "Alright. I'll be a mute."

"Good. Now then, it occurs to me that I could employ some theatrical props to good use in the future. Perhaps make some smoke bombs in case one needs to divert a killer or sew some hidden pockets in your clothes to conceal a derringer or a small knife…"

"My clothes? Why not your clothes?"

"Don't be ridiculous, James. I'm the actor. You're the warrior." Artie held the door of the pub for Jim. "Perhaps we could hollow out the heels of your shoes and hide something in there…"

Jim simply shook his head and made a beeline for the nearest tankard of beer. Let Artie have his crazy inventions and his shadow games. Jim was simply going to go up North, find the rest of Booth's allies and force one of them to talk. Once he'd satisfied himself that the new president was in no danger, he could retire from the army and start his peace-time career. Perhaps he'd go to Mexico and start a ranch….

WWW


End file.
